


Falling Like the Rain

by PinstripesAndConverse



Category: City of Love: Paris (Visual Novel), Ubisoft City of Love: Paris (visual novel)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Spoilers for Season 2, if you haven't played anything past S2E9 spoilers ahoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-07 22:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12242007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinstripesAndConverse/pseuds/PinstripesAndConverse
Summary: The MC struggles to come to terms with Kat’s death after saving Paris. She calls the one person she thinks can help. Continues the slight AU of Season 2 from my other fics (slight established VincentxMC), post Season 2. Angsty. Season 2 spoilers and speculation.





	1. Chapter 1

She laid awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, afraid to close her eyes. She heard the sounds of cars passing by, occasional chatter from people walking below, a dog barking down the block. All of it normal, routine, but none of it soothing. Her mind wouldn’t stop. She needed it to and it wouldn’t. All she wanted was a decent night’s sleep without seeing large brown eyes behind thick rimmed glasses, a cocky smile with pink hair and a black blazer.   

Everywhere she looked, there was Kat. The photos on the walls, the furniture, the lights by the fireplace. The empty bedroom next to hers filled with clothes she had yet to donate. 

The picture of them from graduation was gut-wrenching; she tore it off the wall one night out of spite, the glass of the frame shattering and scaring her cat. She had sobbed afterwards, sweeping up the shards through tear-blurred eyes and laying the frame on the coffee table.

All of it reminders of the friend she thought she knew. Her friend through college, through her hardest times. A traitor. Not just to her but to all of Paris. 

And now Kat was in her dreams, when she remembered them. Figments of her, at least. None of them offering peace, explanation, closure.

Her dearest friend dead. Weeks later, she was truly processing what that meant. 

She thought saving Paris would help. She thought finding those responsible for ripping her from this world would ease her pain, her sorrow. But all it did was make her more hollow. Kat was nothing but a tool for a larger plot, easily replaceable. 

Her friend let herself be used. And not for the betterment of society.

She rose from the bed, realizing sleep wasn’t coming any time soon, and walked across the hall, into Kat’s room. It was habit by now; the cat slept here a lot. 

The feline was curled up in a pile of Kat’s clothes, stuff she had dug through to find any semblance of notes, evidence, something that would explain why Kat betrayed her. She pet the cat’s head softly, a light purring coming in response as one eye opened to recognize its owner before closing again. 

She turned, eyes scanning the room before falling on a grey sweatshirt bearing the name of their college; Kat was wearing it when they first met during orientation. She picked it up, thumbing the logo, worn with age, and clutched the fabric to her chest, memories of a better time flooding her mind. Her chest tightened and suddenly it was impossible to breathe, her stomach knotting in agony. 

She stumbled out of the deserted bedroom, trying to catch her breath as she choked out a sob. 

No one told her it would be like this. Everyone said how sorry they were, for her to lose a friend, to have to hunt down her killer. No one told her how utterly painful the aftermath would be, how everything would still hurt after the dust settled and everyone went back to work, back to their lives. 

If she did run into anyone, their eyes were always tinged with something she couldn’t identify. Their words were carefully chosen, as if afraid to upset her. 

It was infuriating. She hated the crying but she hated being treated like a child more. 

No one batted an eyelash as she was chasing down the killer, as she was trying to prevent Paris from becoming the new Venice. But now? Now it was almost as they expected her to be over it. No one had time for her pain anymore. Well, almost no one.

She hated to bother him but she was at a bit of a loss at the moment, her mind clouded.

She curled back up on her bed, hugging Kat’s sweatshirt as her eyes fell on the clock. It was early morning, dawn still hours away but evening long gone. Her shaky hand found her phone on her bedside table; she unlocked it and scrolled through her recent calls, finding the name she wanted.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The line rang once...twice.     
  
"I'd say this was a surprise but you tend to keep odd hours, (f/n)," his voice sounded slightly groggy, different for her to hear.   
  
"Did I wake you?" She worked to keep her voice as even as possible, her chest so tight inhaling hurt.   
  
"I was working on something, I dozed off." He hastily replied; she heard the shuffling of papers in the background.  She knew he was intent on getting his social standing back, he was probably reading over contracts.  "This can’t be a social call, it's quite late for that." His tone was tired yet she caught the hint of playfulness he sometimes took with her.  She didn't respond in kind, and she could imagine his expression as he continued, eyebrows stern and mouth set in a slight frown.  "What's wrong?"     
  
"I..." words caught in her throats as she struggled to breathe, swallowing hard to contain the sob that wanted to break out of her, "can't sleep.  Everytime I try...I…”. She paused, gathering her thoughts.  “I couldn't think of anyone else to call." Her voice dropped to a whisper as she wiped away a tear with the heel of her hand rather roughly.     
  
There was silence for a moment, before he said softly, "I'll be over shortly, ma cherie."

It took a moment for her to process what he said. Her mind wanted her to protest, slight panic running through her.  What had she expected from him by calling him?  He was a man of action, not idleness, what was he supposed to do?

“Seems to be another habit of mine, pulling you away from something.”  She said, guilt eating at her; he was always busy, especially now, and here she was, imposing.  Again.

“It was hardly important if I fell asleep mid-sentence.  Anyone else would never reach me for another few hours.”

“It's not…”

“An imposition?  (F/n), that I offer at all should tell you everything you need to know.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“I’ll be there soon.”  His tone was tinged with a gentleness she wasn’t aware he was capable of, softer than even the kindness he offered the night after they caught Marion.

The line went dead and she placed the phone carefully back on the nightstand.  Kat’s sweatshirt was stained with her tears, the fabric still smelling of her friend’s old perfume.  She slipped it on, a chill suddenly rising through the room from the early morning, before shifting sit at the edge of the bed, her bare feet touching the cold floor.  Taking as deep a breath as her constricted chest allowed, she pushed herself off of the mattress, at least determined to wipe the traces of tears from her face.

The woman staring back at her in the bathroom mirror was…her, but it didn't look like her.  Her hair was matted and tangled, bags sat under her eyes, her face ashen except where the flush from crying sat in her cheeks.  She ran the water, pressing a cool wet cloth to her face, the sharp sensation welcome against her warm face.  She did her best with her hair, brushing it quickly to at least get rid of the knots.

She went back into her bedroom, picking up the stray clothes on the floor, throwing away tissues, somewhat making the bed.  Having someone over, regardless of the hour, distracted her enough to at least tidy up a little around the apartment.  She stared at the kitchen for a moment as she passed by, dishes stacked in the sink haphazardly.   _ That  _ was something she had no energy for, since they would have to be done by hand.  

_ As good as it’s going to get, all things considered. _  She bitterly thought, glancing around the living room before returning to her bedroom, ruining the barely-made bed by crawling back under the covers.

The weight of the blankets was a welcome relief from the pressure inside her chest.  She laid there until she heard a car pull up to the curb below, the engine idling for a moment before being shut off, and a door closing.  She rose a minute later, arriving to the door just as she heard a soft knock.

Even at three in the morning, Vincent Karm managed to look like he was stepping out of a business meeting.  The stark contrast between his suit and her sweatshirt and lounge pants was more shocking to her than him, his face unreadable as he entered the apartment silently, his hand grazing hers as he passed, fingers reaching for hers.  She shut the door and adjusted her hand so that her fingers were laced with his.

Despite the fog of grief in her mind, she was vaguely aware of how...uncertain their relationship was.  Now wasn’t the time to discuss it, she knew, but it  _ was  _ a topic to be broached at a later date.  

She was acutely aware of his gaze on her, the room only lit by the lights on the fireplace, and she looked up to find him watching her with concern, his stare soft, dare she think  _ understanding _ .  

So different than the looks others gave her recently.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He didn’t speak, instead squeezing her hand briefly, comfortingly, before stepping forward to bow his head and kiss her forehead.  She felt his lips begin to form a reply, something quite different than the “You’re welcome,” he murmured into her hair.

She had a fleeting thought about their first meeting when she arrived back in Paris months ago.  He was the first familiar face she saw, a comfort in the concrete halls of that hell, despite their game.

“Funny that you’re the person who sees me like this,” She whispered.  “After her murder, now this…”

“Don’t forget your fainting spell.”  He stepped away from her, his eyes falling on the little parts of her flat for a moment before shifting back to her.

“Oh, yes, how could I forget that I passed out for hours and kept the ever-important Vincent Karm from his Tuesday evening activities?”  Her sarcasm was meant to be light but it came out with a biting edge she hadn't intended but didn't notice until the words passed her lips.

“You  _ did  _ ask for my help, what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t make sure you were safe?”  It was as if he hadn’t  _ heard  _ her tone, or if he had, chose to ignore it.  Odd.  He usually verbally stabbed people right back when they tried being sharp-tongued with him.

And she wasn’t sure if he was talking about  _ then  _ or  _ now _ .  She felt him studying her and she ducked her head, glancing away, her chest constricting again.  Maybe this had been a bad idea.

“When  _ was  _ the last time you slept properly?”  He suddenly asked, leading her over to the round ottoman by the coffee table before gesturing for her to sit as he entered the kitchen.  

“I’m not sure,” she responded.  Her sense of time was certainly off; a few minutes felt like hours and if she napped, it was usually during the day.

_ Don’t comment on the dishes, don’t comment on the dishes, I’m not a slob, I swear!   _ She thought, her stomach dropping; it never occurred to her he might actually  _ see  _ her mess.

She sat down and fiddled with the cuff of the sweatshirt, pulling the sleeve over her hand before she bundled the excess fabric in her hand.  Her eyes fell onto the pattern of the pillow to her left as she heard the soft sounds of cups clinking on the countertop, cabinets being opened and closed in search of something.  She had a clear view of most of the kitchen from her seat, and she cast her eyes to watch Vincent maneuver the space.  He took the kettle from the stove and filled it without a snarky comment about her dishes, before he set it back on the burner and lit it.

She watched him draw a separate handkerchief from his pocket, a deep blue rather than the usual chartreuse one he kept at his breast, unwrapping it and dropping a tea bag in each of the mugs he set out.  He came out of the kitchen, eyes assessing the living room before he found what he was looking for; he took the blanket she had folded barely twenty minutes earlier and draped it around her shoulders on the way back to the kitchen.  

Vincent being nice  _ was  _ weird, she admitted, but she supposed the man who carried her through the streets of Paris had a kind side.  

He returned a few minutes later and held a mug out to her, which she took and held with both hands, savoring the warmth against her palms.  Vincent glanced at the couch for a moment before deciding one of the chairs from the small breakfast nook would do just fine, carrying over an antique wooden chair to sit to her left, the coffee table between them.  

Silence dominated the air but it wasn’t uncomfortable, expectant.  The tea was different; Vincent murmured something about it being a personal blend he used when he needed to sleep.  The bitter edge was taken away by the honey he added to hers, knowing the taste wasn’t for everyone.

Sleepiness began to creep to the edges of her vision but she fought it, blinking multiple times to keep her eyes open.  Her thoughts of Kat, the flood, the Knights, her anger, and pain ebbed away, and for the first time in several hours she felt as if she could properly  _ breathe _ .  

Vincent seemed to be staring at the far wall of the apartment but she knew him well enough to know he was keeping an eye on her, even if he didn’t look directly at her.  She placed her mug on the table and wrapped the blanket tighter around herself, falling somewhere between content and pure exhaustion.  She glanced at Vincent, who in turn looked at her, and she could have sworn concern crossed his face for the briefest of moments.

“If I said I’m afraid to be alone, would you stay?” She whispered, her tongue heavy as she formed the words swimming in her head for the past ten minutes.


	3. Chapter 3

His eyes left hers, cast down for a moment, seemingly contemplating her question before meeting her tired gaze again.  “ _ Are  _ you afraid to be alone?”

_ I currently feel alone despite your company, but that's not your fault.  _ She thought as her hand gripped the blanket tighter.

“Terrified.” She admitted in a whisper.  “Although I'm not sure if it's that I'm afraid to be alone or that I'm afraid  _ I am _ alone.”

He reached over, the distance between them not unlike that at the opera box all that time ago, and untucked a piece of her hair from the blanket, gently pushing it behind her ear.  He did that a lot, she noticed, but she often wondered if it was more than he might enjoy running his fingers through her hair than an image of imperfection.

His finger brushed her ear, lingering as it met her jaw for a moment before drawing back, almost hesitantly.

“Grief has no timeline, (f/n),” he said softly.  “You pushed through to do what must be done, but that doesn't mean you can’t miss her.”  There was a long pause, as if he wasn't sure if his next thought was appropriate.  “And I can assure you, you're never alone.”

She looked away first, heat prickling behind her eyes.  No one has said that to her.  They gave condolences and trite phrases about reaching out to them if she needed them, but they never  _ told  _ her this state of being was okay,  _ normal. _  None of her friends assured her that she wasn't, in fact, as alone as she felt in the past few days.

“Despite our history and...whatever it is that keeps drawing us together...I understand,” Vincent said softly.  “I’m acutely aware of the pain you feel.”  

_ He’s never one for personal confessions without a story, but somehow I think that's all I'm getting on that note.  _ She silently wondered, hesitantly looking back at him to find him looking forward again, drinking from his mug as if nothing significant happened between them.  

“I’ll stay, but on one condition,” he said, the tone of conversation shifting suddenly.  

She narrowed her eyes at him, partially to keep her tears back longer.  “I know better than to blindly agree to anything from  _ you _ , Vincent.”

“You take tomorrow off.”  He said simply, placing his mug down beside hers and crossing his leg over his knee, hands folded in his lap.  If he had a signature negotiation position during meetings, she had a feeling it was exactly that one.

She protested immediately, her stomach knotting at the thought of not distracting herself with her work.  “I still have deadlines I have to-” 

“No work.  Phone on Do Not Disturb.”

“My editors still expect to be able to contact me, they want my work.”

“And they'll get it.  But you need time for yourself, (f/n).  You’re putting everyone else’s needs and demands ahead of your own, partially in hopes of easing your pain.  If you can keep busy, your brain doesn't focus on the loss.  But it doesn't work that way, and you’re going to burn out before long.  You’ve been doing that for weeks.”

She looked at her feet, her socks the warm and fuzzy ones Kat always gave her for Christmas.

He was a known workaholic himself, anything she dug up on him years ago talked about how much he did, how thin he would spread himself to get what he wanted.  He knew what he was talking about, then.  Even the Parisian Prince of Darkness knew his limitations.

She sighed softly.  She had called him, not vice versa, and that he came was all but miraculous.  If she had wanted a shoulder to cry on and commiserate with, it wasn't Vincent, as empathetic as he was being.  

“Okay.  But for the record, I’m not happy about it.  I just…”

_ Don’t want you to leave _ .  She thought as she trailed off, not wanting to admit that thought out loud.  

“...don't know what to do with myself.”

“Think about it tomorrow,” Vincent said.  “For now, sleep might be best.”

She nodded, her eyes feeling heavy again as she rose and adjusted the blanket she had around her shoulders so it fell over her like a cloak. He took her hand when she extended it to him, a silent plea to follow her, and for once her hand was warmer than his.  She led them down the short corridor to the pair of bedrooms, glancing into Kat’s room, where a pair of wide green eyes watched the pair before closing slowly, the cat falling back asleep as they entered the other bedroom.

She had managed to tidy up her room enough to make it presentable, but she realized it was still far from the immaculate state she preferred.  Mostly due to books and just tiny things she had laying around, stray earrings and the like.  She had an antique armchair in the corner by the window-a little reading nook on her days off.

“You, um, don't have to be next to me,” she felt her face grow hot as she continued, “you can be literally anywhere in the apartment, I just…”

She let go out of his hand to take the blanket off and fold it, placing it on her dresser.  

Vincent said nothing, walking to the other side of the room to gaze out of her window for a moment, loosening his tie and undoing the top button as he stared at the morning haze beginning to form over the streets.

She watched him for a moment before crawling back under the covers of the bed.  She entertained the idea of removing Kat’s sweatshirt but decided against it for the sake of modesty, even if she was a tad too warm.  The tank top she had underneath was thin, too thin to be remotely appropriate for the current situation.  She adjusted the pillows and laid on her side, facing him and the window.  

Vincent turned around, and they held each other’s gaze for a moment before he slowly came over to the bed and sat down.  He put one leg over his other knee, nimble fingers working the laces on his Italian shoes with ease; his eyes were focused on the task.  He repeated the process with his other shoe and shifted to place both feet on the floor to slip them off.  

Her eyes grew heavier, and the last thing she saw was Vincent glancing over his shoulder, watching her as she drifted off to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Vincent watched her fall asleep, her breathing slowing as she finally relaxed, her hands tucking the blankets under her chin.  He hadn’t seen her since their encounter with Alia and the group effort to close the sluice gates and stop the flooding; the last time he had seen her  _ peaceful  _ was after they questioned Marion, after…

He knew she could be  _ bold _ , but  _ that _ …

He looked away from her and turned back to the city, watching the first lights of the morning come on, the early-risers starting their day.  He inhaled deeply, thinking he should at least try to get some sleep himself. 

Vincent took his phone out of his pocket, sending a text to Eugene that he would be staying the night and to return in a few hours with his usual toolkit of cleaning supplies.  

Eugene was  _ odd _ , certainly, but the man was loyal, and did what he was asked with no questions other than those necessary to get the task done.  

He got no reply and heard the car parked on the street below start and pull away.  He sighed and sat further onto the mattress and adjusting the available pillows before laying atop the covers on his back.  He turned his head to the left to watch her for a moment before his eyes fell back to the ceiling.  There were prominent water stains in the drywall and what looked like stains from cigarette smoke from the previous tenant smoking for probably thirty years.

He wondered if it was his place to suggest she consider finding new housing if she was to stay in Paris.  Here...there were too many memories for her, too many of them painful.  Her closure could only come from moving on, possibly quite literally.  

Seeing her this way...struck a chord with him, with a part of him he truly hadn’t thought about in some time.  He remembered the feeling of hopelessness, the gut-wrenching stabbing in his chest, the  _ anger  _ as the world continued to turn when the person he cared about was gone.  

The loss of a friend.

_ I never got to apologize, Paul.  You left this world so quickly and I never got to apologize _ .  

He had pushed himself away from everyone, dealt with his pain exactly the way she currently was; pushing it aside for another time, easing it with work and forgetting everything,  _ everyone  _ else.

He was beginning to drift into an uneasy sleep when he heard a whimper beside him and feet shifting under the blanket.  Vincent blinked the sleep from his eyes and turned over on his side towards her, finding her brow tense and mouth set into a slight grimace.  His hand went out to touch her arm and gently wake her, but he stopped, hesitating with concern over whether she would be able to return to sleep if he did so.  

He felt his jaw tense as she pulled the covers towards her, her knuckles surely white underneath the blanket.  He had hoped the tea he had given her would relax her enough to avoid the dreams that seemed to keep her from sleeping properly.  

“Kat,” she whimpered, “why wasn’t it enough?”

She shifted again, drawing her knees up to curl into a ball.  He could make out tears forming at the corners of her eyes, glistening in the trickle of light from the nearby streetlamp.  Her breathing was harsher, shorter.

“Why...did you...why wasn’t…”

Vincent stared at her, his eyes wide, unsure of what to do.  His chest tightened watching her, in the same way it had when her face went ashen before she fainted.  Seeing her like this...it brought back his pain, yes, but it hurt him for another reason he wasn’t quite of, too.  He had wanted to help her these past weeks because he wanted to  _ spare her  _ this pain.

He had warned her two years ago  _ precisely  _ for this reason.  

Her shoulders shook as she sobbed quietly in her sleep, in a dream he could only assume involved Catherine, probably Alia as well.  He tentatively reached out and stroked her hair, careful not to wake her.  

“You...you betrayed me...left me…”

Her sobbing grew louder, more  _ agonizing _ , and Vincent cringed at the sharp change, her pain radiating from her like a fever.  

This was her...broken.  Shattered.  This was the part she was hiding from him that evening of the murder, this was the pain she had kept hidden from everyone behind a mask of anger as they sought the killer, sought the imposter who wanted to flood Paris.  

He couldn’t bear it.  He couldn’t bear to see her suffer.

She called him to help and yet he was at a loss.  He shifted closer to her, putting one arm under her neck so he could cradle her head and the other around her torso, his hand resting on her back, below the hood of the sweatshirt.  

He was vaguely aware he was going to have to ask Eugene to bring a change of shirts for him, but that was another matter for later.  Her cries turned to wails, screams that probably drove her neighbors mad over the past week or so, that shattered his heart listening to them.

He let her cry, stroked her hair, his other hand rubbing her back gently as he whispered sweet nothings in her ear.  That she was okay, that he was there, that  _ someone  _ was here for her.  

He closed his eyes as he kissed her head, his thoughts returning to  _ that night _ for the briefest of moments when he was told Paul was gone, that Raphael had done what a responsible driver should, that it was out of their control...

No one had done this for him, after Paul.  Death was not kind, it was cruel and cold and unforgiving.  It changed him.  

But he would not see her lose her hope, her optimism, because someone had taken her best friend from her.  She was too full of life for that, too passionate, too kind, too caring.  

_ That makes it all the more painful to bear _ , he thought, knowing her strengths came from those parts of her.  

He held her tighter against him, her body shaking with sobs, her screams dying to low whines.  Her breathing was uneven as her crying slowly stopped and a hoarse whisper escaped her lips.  

“Vincent…”

He frowned and narrowed his eyes, pulling back from her to peer at her face.  Her eyes were closed, her face tear-stricken and red and blotchy, but she was certainly still...asleep.  He shifted back and held her to him again, closing his eyes as her sobs died out and her breathing became even again.  He felt her shift closer to him, probably as close as they could be with the comforter between them, her cheek resting against his chest...probably close enough to hear his heart.

Vincent felt himself finally drifting off to sleep as the sun began to rise, a pink-orange glow casting itself on the opposite wall, driving away the darkness from the night before.  


	5. Chapter 5

She was aware of a cool breeze coming from her window and wrapped the blanket around her tighter, hunkering down in the covers.  Her bed felt warm, warmer than she thought possible, but only she was in it.  Her hand searched for the source of warmth and found nothing, her eyes refusing to open to inspect her surroundings.

A soft chuckle came from the foot of the bed, perhaps a little further away.  She opened her eyes, blinking several times to adjust to the late-morning sun streaming through the room.  Vincent was half-dressed, his waistcoat absent and collar turned upwards; he was the middle of tying his tie when she woke up.  A dark blue tie, the color only noticeable in the right light; a black waistcoat was hanging with the rest of a dry-cleaning bag over the back of her bedroom door.  A glimmer of mischief and...something she couldn’t quite figure out, danced in his eyes before he turned back to her vanity and began finishing his tie.

“You have to get up at some point, my dear.”  Vincent said, their eyes locking in the reflection of the mirror.

“Not technically,” she replied.  “You only said no work and putting my phone on ‘do not disturb’.  You mentioned nothing about how I spend my day.”

“I’m almost certain you’re not one to waste a day beneath a blanket. At least not alone.”  He smirked, turning his collar back down and smoothing his tie.  

“Oh, ye of little knowledge.” She said, sitting up and watching him.  “That’s a new look for you.”

“I _do_ own more colors than green, (f/n).  Makes for easy matching when necessary.”

“Do you have a lot of occasions where tie matching is necessary?”

“Not as of late, no.”  

Silence fell between them as she realized just how puffy her eyes were, how knotted her stomach was, how tangled her hair was. Her nose was stuffy too.

Had she…she remembered a nightmare, the same one with Kat, with Alia.  Rarely did it ever continue because she woke up, but somehow Vincent was tangled into her thoughts too...

Oh, crap.

“Did I…did I…” She _did,_ she didn’t have to continue her question as she locked eyes with his reflection.  She covered her mouth with her hands, embarrassed.  No wonder he was changing clothes.  “I’m so sorry, that’s not why I called you here, I didn’t….I probably ruined that shirt, I’m-“

Something in his expression made her stop rambling as he fixed the knot of his tie, tightening it to bring it flush with his collar.  He fixed his cuffs a final time after he slid on his jacket.

“(F/n), you’re having entirely normal reactions to something extremely painful,” he began, turning around to look at her.  “It might be a good idea to consider...other living arrangements, when you’re ready.  Staying here might only cause more unwelcome stress.” 

An idea she had considered after Alia’s arrest.  It lacked the willpower to execute, however, even now.  She remembered her first apartment hunt and how stressful that had been; moving in with Kat had been the easiest way to deal with moving to a new country without the fuss of landlord negotiations.  

Vincent was right, she knew.  Her mind protested but her gut said otherwise.  She nodded in agreement but said nothing, feeling torn between leaving everything she had left of her friend behind but wanting to move forward, as she knew Kat would want her to.

“Out of everyone you’ve met in this city…” he trailed off for a moment, and she saw his eyes glaze over in deep thought for the briefest of moments before he came back to the present.  “Let’s just say I know how it feels to lose a dear friend.”  

They watched each other, as they often had in the past, as they had in fleeting moments over the past few weeks’ events.  Yet this wasn’t assessment, wasn’t looking for reactions; he understood her, on a visceral level, in her time of pain.

Just when she didn’t think he couldn’t understand her anymore than he already did…

“I have business to attend to for most of the day,” he said softly.  “I have Eugene taking care of a few things for you, he should be back shortly.  If you would prefer to be alone, you can send him on his way.”  

She nodded, murmuring, “Thank you.  For…well, everything, really.”

“You saved my city, (f/n).  It’s the very least I could do.”  He walked over to her and took her hand, his fingers finding hers in the too-long sleeves of the sweatshirt.  “I owe you a great deal for that.”

She half-expected him to kiss her hand, yet that seemed too...flirtatious, given the circumstances.  He ran his thumb over the top of her hand, as if hesitating on letting go.

“It was nothing.  Paris is my home too.”

_I don’t think any other city could be as satisfying for me as Paris.  Not anymore._ She thought, realizing how alien America seemed now, after everything she had been through in this city.

“I’ll call later.”  Vincent said quietly, his free hand reaching for a lock of her hair and fixing it, despite its tangled state.  

He let go of her hand, which she let gently fall into her lap to play with the pattern on the blanket absent-mindedly, watching him go.  He hesitated in the doorway, looking back at her over his shoulder briefly before walking down the corridor and out of the apartment.  

She heard a thump and a soft pitter-patter of paws as her cat left his usual sleeping spot to come and see her, gracefully leaping onto her bed with a soft chirp of sorts.  He purred softly as he kneaded the blanket, staring at her with large green eyes.

“Yes, I know, it’s lunchtime.”  She said to the cat.  “You could have at least said hello, he’s not... _all_ bad, you know.”

The cat meowed in reply, before pausing in its kneading to come closer and bump its head under her chin affectionately.  She ran her fingers through the soft fur before scooping him up and heading out into the living space.

* * *

Much to her surprise, the apartment was spotless.  

It wasn’t even this clean when she first got here two years prior; Kat was tidy, but she often missed small things, like dust on the mantle or a cobweb in a corner.  There was an actual coffee table, not just a place where mail collected in a heap, the only thing on it a recent edition of a newspaper declaring Henri de Valois the winner of the mayoral election.

Oh, goodness...the dishes were gone, cleaned and put away.  

What in the world…

She peered into other rooms to find them all in a state of cleanliness; lived in, but tidy.  Even the pile of clothes she had ripped out of Kat’s closet were neatly put back, the bathroom practically shining.

_Was that what Eugene was doing?  Cleaning?_ She thought, amazed at the level of detail and thoroughness.

She put the cat down and went about filling his bowl with food and replenishing his water.  She set the bowl down, the feline eating noisily, tail swishing.  She was about to make a small pot of coffee when she heard the door, Eugene stepping into the apartment, arms filled with bags and a few dry-cleaning bags clipped to a messenger bag he had over his shoulder.

She rushed over to help him and took some of the bags from his arms.  “What...Eugene, what _is_ all of this?”

Her eyes caught sight of produce and packages of freshly cut meat, some milk.

“I’m only doing what Vincent asked of me,” the valet replied, setting the groceries down on the coffee table.  He unhooked the hangers and set the garments on a rack near the hallway leading to the bedrooms, finally removing his bag and setting it by the door.

“Which was…?”

“To take care of things for you, unburden things a bit.”

“But why?”  She asked, still dumbfounded.  “I could easily have…”

Eugene cast her a look that said ‘you know very well why’ as he unpacked the groceries and set about putting them away.  

Did she, though?  Vincent’s words came to mind again, that he knew what it was like to lose a friend.  

“Sometimes the last thing you want to do is all of the stuff you’ve put off for weeks,” Eugene said, his head deep in her fridge.  “It isn’t much, but he at least thought a cleaner environment would help.”  The valet stood back up, looking at her through the open space over the sink.  “Is it quite alright if I tackle your bedroom next?  It looks like a storm hit in there.  No wonder you aren’t sleeping.”

She nodded and assisted him in unpacking the food, one plastic bag smelling notoriously of...fried chicken?  She looked at the bag and saw the familiar American logo.

“...you _really_ like fried chicken, huh?”

“I was told to bring you comfort food.  And you’re American, so…”

She opened the container and plucked a piece of chicken from it, chewing slowly.  Her eyes fell to the newspaper next to the bag and she stifled a laugh.

Eugene finished with the groceries and came out of the kitchen, his expression silently asking if she had lost her mind.  “Are you well, Ms. (f/n)?”

“Henri...looks like…”  She gestured between the bag and the newspaper, indicating the similarity between the politician and the man who started Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Eugene picked up the newspaper and held it up to hide his face, leaving her looking at Henri’s picture on the cover.  The valet proceeded to mimic an American accent quite poorly, attempting to mock one of the many commercials for the food company.  

“Well,” she said, her laughs dying down as Eugene threw the newspaper back down on the coffee table, coughing from the voice he was doing.  “At least one of them contributes to society.”

To make her point, she held up her half-eaten piece of chicken, Eugene’s cough turning into a laugh of his own.

_That’s the first time I’ve laughed in awhile.  Since I first caught up with TJ…_

Much of the afternoon passed in a blur as she decided to get ready and wander town for a little while, with a little nudging from Eugene that at least a walk would do her some good.  

She felt so exhausted despite her sleep, an eternal exhaustion inside her soul.  As she wandered the streets, she couldn’t help but wonder if the feeling would ever leave, if there would be a day she could remember Kat without feeling the crushing weight in her chest.  She wiped away the tears hastily, trying to breathe deep for a moment, and finding her chest constricting again.  

She felt so alone again.  Alone in a sea of people.  Why couldn’t the world just...pause, for a moment?  And then she could go back when she was ready?  Why didn’t the world _work_ that way?

“But you’re not alone,” she whispered to herself, so lowly her own ears missed it.  

That someone had come for her in the middle of the night proved that.  That Vincent had his most trusted servant look after the things she had neglected because she just...didn’t have the willpower to do it, because he knew what the crushing devastation of this state of existence _was…_

There was no way she could ever thank him enough. Both of them.

_I can certainly try…_ She thought, her eyes falling on the window display of colorful desserts and cakes, edible works of art.  Everything looked so beautiful and delicious.

She entered and came out with a bag from the bakery; she hoped the small boxes would at least convey the thought.  

* * *

Her apartment was filled with a delicious scent she couldn’t quite figure out.  She glanced into the kitchen to find her oven on, a pan covered in foil cooking away.

_Now I’m just being spoiled, I could have made dinner myself…_ she thought.   _I feel as if I don’t deserve this..._

She heard Eugene in her bedroom and used the opportunity to jot down two quick notes, one for each of them, spending a little more time on Vincent’s than she expected.  Eugene said something in French; she could make out _chat_ and knew her feline was causing mischief of his own.

She slipped the notes into their respective boxes, stuck them in the kitchen, and headed into the bedroom.  Her cat was making it difficult to finish the sheets, thinking Eugene was playing with him whenever he tried to throw the top sheet on.

“I can finish, Eugene, you’ve done more than enough.”  She said, seeing the exasperated expression on the valet’s face.  She smiled and took the fabric from him, “Take it as a good sign, he likes those he can play with.”

Eugene left to scamper down to the kitchen; she heard the oven open and the sound of a pan being taken out and placed on the burners.

“Esteban does something similar, but he tends to nap in the middle of the bed instead.”  Vincent said, admiring the scene of the cat batting at the fabric as she tried to make the bed.

The journalist jumped slightly at his voice, clutching the sheet she had taken from Eugene.  She was _literally just in the living room_.  How had he…?

She looked down to find his feet missing their shoes.  Sneaky jerk.

“I was….I didn’t even hear the door.” She stammered out, scooping up the cat to get him off the bed.

“Yes, well, that was the idea.” Vincent said, amusement in his eyes as he walked over to the bed.

He took the other side of the sheet and helped her finish making her bed before leaving to check on Eugene in the kitchen.  Her hands moved on autopilot as she arranged the pillows at the headboard, the cat jumping back up and curling up at the seam between the two pillows.  Much like the rest of the apartment, Eugene had outdone himself in tidying up the small room without compromising her privacy.  

Her stomach growled and for the first time all day, perhaps all week, she realized she was _hungry_ and actually wanted to eat.  

She made her way back to the living area to find the coffee table covered in a spread of dishes, pillows on the floor for seating and Vincent scrolling through her video streaming app on her TV, one hand in his pocket as he flicked through the selection.

“ _Lucifer_ works, I’ve heard good things” she said quietly as she approached him.  “But what are you doing?”

“Distracting you with my charming company.”

“You don’t really seem the type for a night-in eating in front of the TV.”  She actually had a hard time picturing Vincent sitting on the floor comfortably, he was far too tall for the space between her coffee table and the couch.

“Oh, ye of little knowledge.”  Vincent smirked at the the TV, glancing sideways at her.  “I worked in television and advertising, remember? Competitive research.”

“He binged four seasons of Game of Thrones in two weeks.”  Eugene said nonchalantly, laying out plates and silverware and checking to see what else was needed.

Her eyes darted to Vincent, who frowned slightly at the admission from his servant but said nothing.  

“Impressive,” she said, laughing slightly at the valet’s casual remark.  

“There are far better things to be amazed by, Ms. (l/n).”  Her stomach growled loudly and she wrapped her arms around her torso instinctively, as if to muffle the noise.  “One of them is Eugene’s cooking.”  

He indicated for her to go take a seat and eat with a slight inclination of his head and she relented, leaving his side to take in everything Eugene had prepared.  She took a plate and took some of the meat from the pan, and a spoonful of a few other dishes, wanting to start small.  She looked up to find Eugene gathering his things and rolling his sleeves down, likely to slide his jacket back on.  

“Can Eugene stay too?”  she asked as Vincent found the show she was talking about and loading the first episode.  

Eugene was taken aback at the question, seemingly eager to enjoy the fruits of his labor, yet knowing full well his boss could have other uses for him.  The red haired man looked at Vincent and waited.

“He’s welcome to stay if he wishes to stay.”  Vincent replied.  “It’s your apartment, after all, Ms. (l/n).”

Eugene helped himself to food after Vincent, who took a spot on the couch behind her.  The three of them got through several episodes before Eugene took the initiative to wrap everything up and clear off the coffee table.  

She got up and stretched, her legs cramping from her position on the floor.  She used to sit on the floor all the time for hours and now she could barely withstand it.   She took advantage of the break to put the desserts she had bought on plates and set them out, slipping her notes under each plate.  

She curled up on the large  couch and pulled a blanket around herself as she nestled into the corner.  When both of them looked at the plates, she simply said “I couldn’t figure out how to thank you, so…” and gestured to the desserts, picked to suit each of them.

Eugene marveled at the small cake’s detailing, murmuring a thank you as he settled back into his spot on the floor.  Vincent pocketed the note under the plate and settled in next to her, eyeing the chocolate mousse before taking a spoonful.  Her eyes fell back on the TV, occasionally watching Vincent in her peripheral vision; the slightest smile appeared on his lips after the first bite of dessert and she knew she had chosen correctly.  

A small success.

“Thank you, (f/n).”  Vincent murmured.  “Certainly...unexpected.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“That makes two of us.”  

Her face muscles twitched into a brief smile but she couldn’t bring herself to continue the banter.  The exhaustion she had managed to keep at bay was creeping back, tightening around her soul like a vice.  Maybe it was the dim lighting and warmth of the blanket and, dare she think it, the people around her.  For the first time in awhile, it felt as though she was wanted, even when she wasn’t sticking her nose where it shouldn’t be and rescuing the city from disaster.

She shifted on the couch, her feet towards the end of the couch and her head near Vincent, facing towards the TV.  Vincent plucked one of the small pillows from the other end of the couch and nudged her gently in order to place the pillow against his leg, giving her something soft to rest on.  She murmured a thanks and was surprised to find his hand playing softly with her hair, so lightly she almost didn’t feel it at first.  Her eyes began to slowly close of their own accord despite her will to finish the episode to the end.  

She drifted off to sleep, feeling understood, connected.  For the first time in weeks, her dreams were quiet and peaceful, filled not with nightmares, but with possibilities of what laid ahead.


End file.
